


You're Safe

by LipstickAndWhiskey (CopperMarigolds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Feelings of vulnerability, Language, and fear associated with an (attempted) break-in, defencelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8970034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperMarigolds/pseuds/LipstickAndWhiskey
Summary: Reader has an attempted break-in at her house and Dean is there to help make things okay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So recently I had an attempted break-in while I was home alone. It’s a awful experience that makes you question your true safety, and I just had some feels that I needed to write out.

You sat on your couch, clutching onto your second hot mug of tea as you vaguely listened to the officer ask questions here and there. Full name, birthdate, so on and so forth. Every nerve felt numb to everything except the probably too-hot mug you held in your hands. Everything just felt _numb_ \- dull and far away, as if you were underwater.

You knew you were barely hanging on. You’d called Dean right after your neighbors had called the police, managing to sound coherent albeit detached. All you needed to say to convince him was ‘I need you’, and he was already on his way.

Nothing was stolen, but your back door was partially broken, door jamb splintered into chunks. You were safe. Yeah, _safe_. That illusion was shattered that morning, along with the wood on the floor. You were cautious already of course, but every noise had you jumping a little in your seat as you talked to the officer. To say your nerves were frayed would be an understatement.

You sipped at your tea, letting the feel of the porcelain in your hands help ground you. An argument just outside caught your attention, the gruff baritone of one voice familiar.

“Is she okay? Where is she? You have to let me see her.”

The officer next to you tilted his head to the door, “that your guy you called earlier?”

You nodded eagerly, not quite ready to talk just yet, and watched as he crossed the room and opened the door. A few quick words and Dean was barreling in, his hair askew as if he’d been pushing his hands through it repeatedly. He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands immediately framing your face.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, eyes frantically searching your own. You shook your head, watching his shoulders relax only a fraction. “They told me what happened. God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

The front door closed louder than you’d expected, jolting you and your drink as Dean held your face. His face fell into a deep frown, brows knitting together as he looked you over again. He pulled your mug from your hands, resting it on the coffee table before slowly pulling you into his embrace.

It was suddenly as if the proverbial dam broke. You clutched at his shirts desperately, shaking as you held him as close as you could possibly get him. Close wasn’t close enough, so you held him as tight as you could manage. You were sure that your fingertips were curling harshly into his skin, but he didn’t make a sound as he held you back almost just as tight. You sobbed brokenly into his neck, and he rubbed his fingertips across your scalp in an attempt to soothe.

“Shhh, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you as long as I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Shhhh.” he whispered into your hair, all soft reassurances as he rocked you back and forth softly.

Eventually your vice-like grip loosened as did Dean’s, but his attentions never did. He kept telling you that you were safe. You were safe and as long as he was alive, he was going to keep you safe. He pulled you back, looking into your eyes as he thumbed away your tears. A swift kiss to your forehead, and you had an armful of Winchester again.

The cop came back in, making you jump again, and handed Dean some papers. You figured it was a copy of the report that was filed. You didn’t bother to ask, instead burrowing your face into his neck. He was warm and soft, the light scent of leather and pine comforting you almost as much as his presence. Dean was safety.

You finally calmed down enough to pull away, Dean watching you to make sure you were okay. He’d asked as much before groaning as he stood.

“Where are you going?” you asked, grabbing his hand as you hoped he wasn’t leaving. He’d saw your panic, quickly reassuring you. “I’m not leaving. I’m just going to board up the back door. The lock’s broken, so I’ll have to replace that for you another time. But for now, I want you to pack up what you’ll need for a night or two.”

“What for?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“You’re staying at my place tonight. No way am I letting you stay here by yourself tonight. Unless you want me to stay over here instead?”

If you weren’t cried out already, you would’ve cried at how perfect he was.

“Nope, I want to sleep on that foam mattress you’ve been telling me so much about.”

He smiled, that boyish giddy smile he usually hid from the world. “It’s memory foam. It _remembers_ me.”

* * *

Dean hadn’t left your side for the rest of the day, lending you his quiet strength. He didn’t coddle you. He didn’t fuss over you at all, which was a great relief. He managed to check on you intermittently, soft and easy without any patronization.

The two of you laid in bed, your head on his chest. Your head moved with every breath he took, up and down again. Up and down. Up, down.

You couldn’t fall asleep. You were dead tired, but your body just felt so wound up that you just couldn’t relax into it. Every noise you heard could be an unwanted visitor, and you just couldn’t get your brain unstuck from fight-or-flight mode. Dean rubbed his hand across your back, heavy and warm and _real._

“Try to get some sleep, babe,” his low voice reverberated against your head.

“Can’t. It’s like my body just won’t untense.”

He hummed in response, laying there until he sat up. You moved aside, watching as he produced a book seemingly out of thin air. It was old and loved, read and reread countless times. ‘Winnie-The-Pooh’ was lettered in gold across the top, along with a single golden bumblebee. It was one of your old books, and Dean knew how much you loved it. He pulled you into him again as he turned the lamplight on, sitting propped up against the headboard. He flipped to the first page, eyeing the simple black and white illustration on the opposite page.

The last thing you remembered was the way Dean read, the silly voice he used saying  _‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain.’_

You were safe here in Dean’s arms as he read you to sleep. You were safe.


End file.
